


CRInktober 2020 Ficlet Compilation

by ModernDayBard



Series: CRInktober Fics [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Growth, Character Study, Chroma Conclave, Consequences, Dark Mighty Nein, F/F, F/M, Facing Fears, Found Family, If You Squint - Freeform, Mighty Nein as Family, Molly Resurrection, More Character Study, One Shot Collection, Pining, Sort Of, Surprises, Teahaw, Unrequited Crush, Wish Fulfillment, beau thinks about ioun, beauyasha and the waterfall, beauyasha fluff, bittersweet endings, campaign one overview, could be paltonic, dressing for the occasion, face your fears, for the whole group, from one character's perspective, grog learns to read, if you'd rather, kind of, one a day for a month, slayers cake, taking care of your cleric, theorizing through character study i guess, this time through tea, will update tags as i write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 15,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Well, it's that time of year again! This time I will be posting the stories simultaneously here and on my tumblr (@moderndaybard). Check them out in either or both places!(I will update tags as I go, including characters/ships, those were the main ones I could think of off the top of my head.)Prompt list courtesy of @CRInktober on tumblr and instagram--check them out!
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Keyleth/Vax'ildan (Critical Role), Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot, Yeza Brenatto/Nott | Veth Brenatto
Series: CRInktober Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915282
Comments: 48
Kudos: 92





	1. Favorite Character: Pass the Torch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny story…I wrote these thoughts out roughly two weeks before last week’s episode (111, for posterity’s sake). What timing—huh?

Mollymauk Tealeaf had never met Caduceus Clay, but he liked him all the same.

First and foremost, he was _really_ good at keeping the others safe, protecting Molly’s family in his stead, and for that the bloodhunter was grateful. Caduceus also truly believed in the Mighty Nein, believed that they could be heroes and did his best to guide them down that path. Maybe he was a tad pushy (and quietly judge-y, but so was Molly, if he were being honest), but there was no denying that the firbolg genuinely saw and wanted the best for these assholes—his assholes— _their_ assholes.

Beyond what he did for the group, there was the fact that Caduceus seemed utterly unconcerned with the past of an individual in favor of striving towards the future (a sadly rare but always refreshing view, in his humble opinion). There was also his steadying, near unwavering comfort with who he was—he knew that his view, approach, and experience lay outside the norms, but didn’t mind that fact or feel the need to conform.

And, of course, there was his wonder at all that he was seeing and experiencing for the first time after emerging into the wider world. Quieter, perhaps than that which the circus man had constantly chased and felt in his two short, full years of life, but undeniably familiar, all the same.

Caduceus Clay had never met Mollymauk Tealeaf, but he liked him all the same.

First and foremost, it was clear from the stories that the others told when they spoke of their fallen friend that his influence has been instrumental—even the catalyst—in getting more than one member of the Mighty Nein to care about more than just this group (or even themselves). He’d planted in them the idea of truly caring about each other, of trying their best to help others. Had it taken hold perfectly? Of course not, but Caduceus was no stranger to gardening.

But more than his visible (and invisible) impacts on the Mighty Nein, there were the tales Caduceus heard them tell of Mollymauk Tealeaf’s unquenchable thirst for new experiences, his willingness to try absolutely anything at least once (perhaps he would have found him a tad too loud from time to time, but it was always good to have a push beyond your comfort zone—right?). If there was one thing the Nein remembered of the dead, it was that he knew how to live during life’s short span—a too-rare attitude, to the grave tender’s mind.

And, of course, there was the very trait that had led to his death—unswerving loyalty that would never give up on any he claimed as his own and prized their lives and well-being ahead of his own. It was something Caduceus admired greatly, and it was the reason that they’d never meet.

No, Molly and Cad had never met, but both knew that their family would be—had been—in good hands all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that line about the reason the two would never meet…that’s going to be a case of writing this story 1-2 weeks too early (I did try to write a buffer of a few of these for myself, since I’m, as of the posting of this, in the middle of a move.)
> 
> Anyhow, here we go for CRInktober 2020! I was excited to participate once again, especially since I had finally caught up over hiatus, only to start a new job that’s hours mean I will be on VOD squad for the foreseeable future (and that at a much slower pace than I used to go through episodes). Oh, well. Not as far behind as I was last year, at least.
> 
> Also, I am actually drawing little pictures to go with each fic since I’ve been learning to draw in the last few months, so check out my tumblr posts (@moderndaybard) for the stories with their picture, or look for the pictures-only posts on Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches).


	2. Sweets and treats: The Slayers' Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe she wasn’t sure how they’d ended up here…but there was nowhere else she’d rather be!

Pike wasn’t quite sure how this had happened; in fact, she was almost certain it had been a joke, at least at first. But joke or not, it was _real_ now: Vox Machina had actually opened a bakery in Whitestone.

They weren’t even that good at baking! Well, they (mostly) weren’t _terrible_ , but it was still undeniable that the only things keeping The Slayers’ Cake in business was all the recognition and gold (mostly the gold) that they had accrued over the course of their adventures. ( _And_ the lack of direct competition in this post-Briarwood, post-Conclave Whitestone.)

Well, maybe not the _only_ thing…

…

…Even back in the planning stage, back when they unknowingly crossed the line from joke to reality one drunken night, to sit there with Vex’ahlia, with Keyleth, even with Taryon, laughing and drinking and discussing recipes, division of duties, and the most ridiculous of menu puns (“— _Bear Claws_ , of course—”“—Can’t forget the _Blondies_ —”“—How does a _Pyrah Lava Cake_ sound—”“—So, the cinnamon rolls are _F_ _un Buns_ now—”)…

…Even when they first started trying out their various recipes—first taking over the castle kitchens, then the one’s in Vex’s new house, then finally in the bakery itself—with sugar in the air, flour smudged on faces or dusting their hair, the utter chaos that was their attempts to figure how to make, well, anything (“Pike, darling, there’s apparently a kind of sweet called ‘Divinity’. We _have_ to try, it’s too perfect for you and Seranrae!”), to say nothing of all of the hours of taste-testing…

…Even now, when one journey or another takes her to Westruun (‘Have to check in on Willhand.’), or Vasselheim (‘Better see what Grog’s up to, now!’), and beyond (‘Scanlan, where _are_ you?’), she finds herself eventually longing for the little shop they never _really_ meant to start (until they did), and finds that thinking of ‘home’ brings to mind a warm kitchen, the flurry of her family (her _real_ family) around her, and a love sweeter than any sugary treat…

…

…Yes, the fame and money were _not_ the only things keeping The Slayers’ Cake afloat…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a reverse of last CRInktober, most of the fics in this set will be Mighty Nein themed, but I didn’t want to leave poor Vox Machina entirely out in the cold!
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	3. Armor: Unfettered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t HAVE to anymore…but did that have to mean that she didn’t WANT to?

She didn’t _have_ to keep the breastplate anymore.

Obann was dead, his control over her mind and will broken in time for her to raise her sword against him and spit her defiance and freedom into his face as he died twice over.

She didn’t technically need it, either. with the long-since commissioned Bracers of Defense now in hand and her usual fighting style accounting for lack of traditional armor, she would be as adequately protected without the dark, hooked, sinister breastplate as with.

She had a choice.

How long had it _been_ since she had a choice? Autonomy, sweet autonomy—and the accompanying uncertainty—were now hers, and for some reason, she didn’t know what she wanted to do.

She should hate the armor, if for no other reason than that it came from _him_ , but…but it had power yet to be unlocked, perhaps. And it was merely a tool, only good or evil depending on the use it was put to, despite its intimidating appearance.

( _She_ could choose to be good or evil, no matter what people saw when they looked at her.)

Maybe…maybe _that’s_ why she decided to keep it, at least for a little bit. Because she knew that she _could_ cast it aside, if she decided that she wanted to, or she could instead use it to protect, to help, to _rise_ —

Because that choice was now hers and hers alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even before I fully caught up, I saw some interesting posts on why Yasha may have kept the breastplate Obann gave her. Saw today’s prompt and couldn’t resist the urge to throw my two cents/attempt to get into her head into the ring.
> 
> (I know Ashley said she felt like Yasha had to let it go, but hadn’t yet figured out a way to in-game, so I guess this is me justifying the waiting period).
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	4. Prank: Impersonations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest prank he ever pulled…was the one he played on himself.

Any truly great scheme runs the risk of getting out of hand—that’s more than half the thrill of it. To narrowly pull it off and nimbly escape _just_ as the house of cards collapses behind you: the only comparable rush was watching the absolute _madness_ around spiral out of your control and blow up in your face.

(Either way was the farthest thing from boring, and what more could an Archfey ask for?)

Of course, there were—very occasionally—these nasty little things called ‘consequences’ that turned what had been a fun and exciting prank into something almost…regrettable—was that the word? (Artagan was fascinated by but only vaguely familiar with the mortal concept of ‘regret’. Usually, if he were wishing the past were different, it was someone _else’s_ actions he wished were different, not his own.)

That wasn’t to say that every situation that spiraled into unexpected, uncontrollable places _began_ as a scheme or plan—sometimes he merely let life take him where it would, and ended up in some _very_ interesting places. (He’d never tell them, but every interaction with that Vox Machina group became one of those situations, and were some of the best diversions he’d had in _ages_.)

So, his biggest prank? The craziest scheme he’d ever pulled off—only to have _it_ pull _him_ off to places he never could have predicted? It never started out that way—was never his plan. He wasn’t even _doing_ plans beyond here’s-what-I’m-doing-today. He never _meant_ for it to go this far (so, naturally, it did)… he didn’t _really_ consider implications, long-term or otherwise…he just hadn’t wanted to let little Jester Lavorre down…

So he said yes’ and began the greatest (and most stressful) long-con of his _life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with this list and the Traveler Con arc coming right on the heels of each other, there was only one place my brain took this prompt… 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	5. Fear: Earn the Comma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her greatest fear was not her loudest one, whatever the others (and herself) may think…

Ask any of the Mighty Nein what their rogue’s greatest fear was, and you’d get the same answer (even from the woman in question): water—being in it, being submerged, drowning. They’d known about the fear, long before they’d ever known the cause of it: addressed it, joked about it, worked with, around, and against it. It was a factor they would forever have to take into account.

But it was _not_ Veth’s greatest fear.

For though she did fear it and likely would never love it, she could and did and likely would again face it if the need was great enough (and if the party begged enough), but there was one thing—one possibility—that she could not face, could not bear.

She fled it, tried to block out the very thought, drown out the notion with booze and shiny trinkets, because she could not bear to live with herself if it even _looked_ like she—like she—

—like she was letting someone else down.

It had been so ingrained in her for so long, to give and to care and to nurture and to forego what she wanted for the sake of those she loved—to vicariously make their happiness her own and to measure her worth and success by how well those in her family(ies) were doing—that failing them was _more_ than hurting them…

…it was losing herself.

And when she was suddenly faced with the very real possibility that doing right by one of her families would mean letting the other one down?

Well, she did not(t) feel like Veth the Brave at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story—I apparently mixed up today’s prompt with yesterday’s, so now I’m doing my post for the ‘fear’ prompt.
> 
> ‘Fear’ obviously brought a certain halfling to mind, but the more I thought about it, the more the obvious answer of her fear of waster seemed…not wrong, but not the end-all, be-all for her, either, hence the musings you just read.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	6. Outside: Looking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After so long…could it really be true?

Sometimes it felt like he’d spent his whole life being kicked, driven, or kept out. The half-orc’s story began with being left at an orphanage, for crying out loud—it was hard to imagine a more ‘outsider’ beginning than that.

As a child, Fjord would have given anything not to stand out so much—to be welcomed in by his peers, or, better yet, taken in by any family who would actually _want_ him. (He did _try_ to be rids of parts of himself, sitting alone with a file in his hands and blood and tusk dust mingled on his lower lip.)

When that hope died, he ventured even further out than he’d ever been pushed, and though he’d hardly have dared to dream it, the way that Vandrin treated him, the life that he managed to scrap together made him think that maybe—just maybe—he’d found his ‘in’ at last.

Then the explosion threw him from the ship into uncaring—but watching, always _watching_ —seas.

And though the search for answers, explanations, took him further out from everything he’d ever known and dared to hope for, Fjord couldn’t shake the thought that, for nearly the fist time in his life, something had reach out to _him_.

(So, it did because it wanted something from him. Everyone did—that was just life—so what was the problem?)

More than promises with threats in them and dreams of power followed by dreams of death, more than all of that, he’d found _them_ —a group of fellow outsiders, any fool could see—and though it took some time to develop (and even longer to realize it, so unused to it as they each were) those who’d been cast out, or ventured out, or ran away found that they’d drawn each other in, and weren’t about to let go.

(Call it ‘codependent’ if you wanted, he preferred ‘family’, thank you very much.)

To his endless wonder and awed disbelief, it didn’t end there: for when the great serpent tried to crush and to dominate, to control by taking back the ‘acceptance’ he’d once so _desperately_ craved, another voice altogether cut through his dreams. Her words clamed and comforted, her arms cradled and protected—she called him hers, and called him home to her.

He’d embraced being an outsider, and the goddess of the outdoors had called him in at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It started as a simple note by today’s prompt: ‘Fjord, the Outsider, welcomed in,’ and it just became a whole thing. Unscripted and improvised this show may be, but some of the arcs and tie-ins put ‘professionally’ scripted shows and movies to shame. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	7. Hope: Under Raven’s Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t where he’d planned on being…but maybe, just maybe, it was where he belonged…

This wasn’t the future he’d have chosen for himself.

As a child in Byroden, he used to dream of finding an apprenticeship—a job that’d pay enough and a trade secure enough that he could support his mother (maybe he could even work in the same place as Vex!)

As a boy in Syngorn, he could not help but hope against reason (especially at first) that he might somehow earn his father’s respect, if not love. Perhaps he would’ve joined the guards—accompanied Vex on her diplomatic missions (any fool could’ve seen she was even more gifted than Syldor in that field, when she set her mind to it.)

As a teen running away with his sister, it was hard to think beyond the next meal or where they’d sleep that night. But sometimes, in the quiet moments just on the cusp of drifting off, he dared to picture a future time where they’d done…something impressive…and showed the world that had never given them a chance just how wrong it’d always been.

As a young man traveling with ~~the S.H.I.T.s~~ Vox Machina, nothing had seemed to change—at first. But the longer he was with them, the more that he could be, not just important, but _good_. With them, for them—Keyleth, Vex, (Grog and Scanlan maybe a little less so), even _Percy_ strangely, all seemed to plant and in their own way nurture in him the idea he could be…a real hero. And Pike? She glowed with her own and her goddess’ radiance, and for however brief a time, he dared to hope that he might, as well…

As a grief-stricken brother, he thought he’d thrown it all away in a desperate bargain for his sister’s life. He found the terms were not as he expected, and he stumbled through the dark for a time, surprised when he found solid purchase at last. Now, wearing the mantle with no reluctance, the Chroma Conclave defeated and many loose ends tied off, he faced separation from Vex, yes, but never too far, and beyond all hope, he had a place at the side of the Voice of the tempest.

No, this wasn’t the future he’d have chosen for himself—ever—but Vax’ildan could not wait to see what it held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vax’s journey as the Raven Queen’s champion was a fascinating one for me to watch, especially as Matt helped Liam/Vax’ildan pull an incredible light out of what could have been a dark character turn. As strange as it may seem to think, Vax was bound for quite the happy life before one fateful battle… It was interesting, and beautiful, in its way.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	8. Bathhouse: Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are hard to face alone. Luckily, she didn’t have to.

It eventually occurred to the Mighty Nein that they hadn’t all gone to a bathhouse together since the spa day/seeming incident shortly after they rescued Yasha from Obann, and Jester _insisted_ that be rectified immediately.

They were in Zadash for a bit—had already stopped by the Invulnerable Vagrant and the Evening Nip to check in with the gentleman and the Pumat Sols—so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to revisit the same bathhouse they’d all gone to together the first time, what felt like lifetimes ago.

Veth was quieter than normal, but that fat got lost in the babbling chaos that was this group in a moment of respite, and the halfling woman found herself caught up in her own whirling thoughts, only startled out once she found herself standing at the water’s edge as her friends plunged in.

She froze, stiff and tense, and felt as much as heard the others fall silent as they each remembered her fear all at once.

If they said anything to her, she couldn’t hear it over the high-pitched ringing in her ears. Veth peered down at the pool, and it was _her_ face staring back at her—the face she’d fought so long and done so much to get back.

The face she’d already lost to water once.

But she was being _silly_ —she’d been in the water since becoming herself again! That whole fight with Vokodo had been underwater and she hadn’t reacted like this, so why was her stupid brain complaining _now_ and ruining her friends’ good time?

She couldn’t look at them—was tired of seeing the pity on their faces—and she kept her eyes fixed to her reflection as she jerkily, mechanically sat at the pool’s edge, feet dangling into the water like it was just another hot tub night at the Xorhouse.

When Veth looked back up, the others were slowly easing back into their relaxation and fun, but she didn’t miss the glances darted her way as they all kept checking in with her, making sure she was alright. She didn’t miss the way that Jester took the splash-war far enough away that she wouldn’t be caught in the spray, especially unaware. She didn’t miss the way that Caduceus hovered close, his feet firmly planted on the bottom and long arms ready to catch and haul her back out, should she fall. She didn’t miss the sensation as Fjord quietly and subtly cast Underwater Breathing on her, using one of his few spell slots to set her a little more at ease.

Each of them, in half a dozen or so small ways, made sure that she was included, yes, but that she was _comfortable_ , that she felt safe.

As she looked down at her reflection again, Veth saw the smile on her face looking back up at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. This whole thing came out of the single realization that the Mighty Nein have not been to a bathhouse together since Veth has become herself again, and I honestly don’t know if we’ll get to see it anytime soon. So, in the tradition of nearly all fanfic writers, I decided I would simply do it myself. Hopefully, you all enjoyed it, too.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	9. Eyes: We Know Your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time being good at something felt like a bad thing…

She’d always had ‘good eyes’.

For as long as she could remember, Vex’ahlia had seen more, heard more, _noticed_ more than just about everyone around her. It’d skill that’d gone far in keeping her and Vax alive and (mostly) safe, and even now was one of the traits that did the most to set her apart within the party.

She’d always had ‘good eyes’.

Vex could spot a trap nearly as well as her twin, a secret passage, a concealed door—hidden treasure. When she found these before Vax, she could not help gloating a little. But he would turn it on her when it fell to _him_ to disarm or unlock them: what good, he would ask, is _finding_ them if you couldn’t _do_ anything about it?

(She hated that question almost as much as she hated the fact that she didn’t have an answer for it—yet.)

She’d always had ‘good eyes’.

Every detail of the reptilian eyes—on in each orb: green, black, white, and read—seared into Vex’s mind, clearly seen even in the brief flash that they were visible, and as impossible to forget as their ominous warning: seeing and seen both, but the party left with no clue to follow, no sense of what to do (except to take what treasure they could) and no way of knowing what was coming, how to prepare.

She’d always had ‘good eyes’—

—for the first time, she wished she didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may never have been a moment we sawn on stream, but I couldn’t see the prompt ‘eyes’ and NOT think of the ‘we know your face now’ moment. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	10. Villains: Hard Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been so much easier to give in, wouldn’t it?

It would’ve been so easy to live a different, darker story—

—So easy for Bren, after so much training and conditioning, not to have broken that night, but to have turned his back on the blaze and followed the other three into the dark. Or perhaps to still have broken, but to emerge a warped Caleb and to want nothing but blood and death and reparation: to show Ikithon how _well_ he’d learned to torture (how slow he could make a death).

—So easy for Veth, in her horror of having been unmade, to refuse to think of her past life as being connected to this form at all, to give up all hope of returning home, to drown out her internal screaming until it was silent at last, and to live as nothing more than the monster that She had turned her into.

—So easy for Jester, the young impressionable girl so desperate to be _seen_ and _known_ and _liked,_ to grow to be very much like her best friend, instead of inspiring Him to grow to be like her. What did it matter if anyone else got hurt or upset so long as the two of them were free to do _whatever_ they wanted?

—So easy for Fjord, alone, unwanted, and lacking agency for so much of his life, to take Uk’otoa’s power eagerly and hunt down Sabian for his treachery, then go after anyone else who had ever wronged him…hurt him… _left_ him…A list grown ever longer, fed by a voice that whispered that only _one_ creature cared about him, that Fjord _owed_ Uk’otoa for everything in his life that was good; that, if he did not obey, all of it could be taken away. So easy to give in to that voice.

—So easy for Beau, angry at a world that never stopped putting her down and shutting her up and belittling her and telling her that she’d never be good enough, to grow bitter and disillusioned with punching _upward_ at those in power when it never seemed to budge them, and instead turn and begin punching _down_ ward at those weaker; if she could not pull people _down_ off of false pedestals, then _she_ at least would not fall to the bottom of the ladder with the weaklings. She wouldn’t be last so long as there was someone beneath her who _knew_ it.

—So easy for Yasha, grief-stricken at her wife’s death, to give entirely over to the rage, to the bloodlust, to Obann’s death-filled path. There was no love or joy for her without Zuala, so why not spread her misery to those who _dared_ to live, laugh, and love? So easy to embrace death and kill love.

—So easy for Mollymauk, awoken as a blank slate, to have embraced the dark undertones of his power, to revel in the pain and fear he could inflict, the control that he could strip away from anyone he chose. So easy to choose—not kindness—but a gleeful cruelty that just couldn’t see how _any_ thing mattered at all in a world in which an empty man could being his life by crawling out of a grave.

—So easy for Caduceus, raised among death and left alone for decades in a graveyard, to lose sight of the value of life and living: if death was the natural end of all things, then what did it _matter_ whether or not it came soon or late? If everyone ended up in the grave eventually, why should he try to spare anyone bound that way—why shouldn’t he speed up the process, instead?

…

Yes, it would have been so easy for a cruel world to breed more cruelty, for the shadows to spread and multiply, and for evil to force more souls to fit its well-worn mold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve seen some interesting ‘Dark M9’ posts floating here and there on tumblr, so when this prompt came up, I figured I’d give it a shot! But above all, I believe the bravest thing a person can do, and the thing that takes the most strength from the human heart, is to chose hope and strive to do better, be better. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	11. Feathers: Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reminder? A parting gift? A deity’s taunt? Or some part of her missing part trying to reach out? Did it even matter which it was?

The first time Vex found a glossy black feather on her windowsill, she hated it.

It’d been less than a week since returning form Pandemonium, the loss of her brother still so fresh that the raven’s feather felt like a taunting dagger tearing at the still-fresh wound, ripping it wider still. She wanted to burn it, throw it away, _destroy_ it—but at the same time, she could not bear to even think of harming it. She found a small box meant for jewelry and tucked the feather away inside, then shoved the box to the furthest corner of a drawer, determined not to speak—or think—of it again.

(Over the years, more feathers would be added to the box. Vex would find them after the birth of her children, on anniversaries of significant events/adventures—and on ~~their~~ ~~her~~ their birthday. She never could decide if she hated them or not.)

The years passed, and the pain and grief, while not gone, were at least easier, more familiar to live with. Vex’ahlia had not forgiven the Raven Queen, but had made or found peace all the same.

Then her second-youngest came to her one day, a familiar dark feather in his small hands, and fear froze her heart for a second.

“Where did you find that, darling?”

Percival Henrich de Rolo (or, ‘Henry’), always a serious child, looked up at his mother with silvery-grey eyes and answered simply, “Outside the crypt-temple in the graveyard. The locked one.”

She didn’t ask what the young tiefling had been doing there—it was hard enough having an inkling as to the answer without hearing her son say the words.

“I think I should keep it, Mama.”

Vex pulled Henry into a tight hug, and the young boy didn’t try to escape or squirm away—even he could sense that something important was on the cusp of beginning. “Alright, Henry. I think so, too.”

(Henry would return time and again to the shrine his father had had built for an uncle he’d never met. Vex and Percy, however reluctantly, accepted that this was not something they could or should fight, and opened it to him. Henry undertook the care and restoration of the Raven Queen’s crypt—and from time to time, he’d find a single raven’s feather left deliberately in front of the altar.

He’d add them to the growing collection in a small box in the back of a drawer in his room.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Little Percival Henrich here is part of my take on the de Rolo kids, introduced and (so far) exclusively appearing in Chapter 24 of my story 2020 CR Fics. He grows up to be a cleric of the Raven Queen, hence the feathers appearing for him, too. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	12. Magic Item: Ways to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caduceus seemed to know how to say so much without words…Jester wanted to show that she’d learned that language, too. (But also, sometimes you needed words, too.)

“Hey, Caduceus?”

The Firbolg glanced up from his mug of tea at his fellow cleric’s voice. “Hey, Jester. Do you want some tea?”

“No—well, yes, I always love your tea,” Jester didn’t skip up to the table, but walked instead: _some_ thing was up with the excitable tiefling. “But actually, _I_ wanted to give _you_ something.”

“Oh? That’s nice,” Caduceus poured some tea into the brightly flower-patterned cup he knew was Jester’s favorite and passed it to her. Even as he smiled at her, he took a moment to watch her—get a sense of how she was _really_ doing in the wake of Traveler Con. (She was definitely troubled by something; but who wouldn’t be after almost losing their not-god to the servant of another deity?)

Jester took the cup and blew on the tea automatically before taking a sip. “I’m really sorry about everything that went wrong on Rumblecusp, Caduceus. I know that Vokodo and that whole stupid island really messed with you, and everyone kept asking me how _I_ was doing—which was really nice, even if I felt bad about telling the truth sometimes—but _no_ body seemed to check in with you, and that doesn’t feel fair at all!”

“Aw, that’s alright, Jester. You had a really big event coming up, after all. And everything worked out in the end. The Wild Mother really helped us in that battle.”

Jester shook her head vehemently, her tail lashing behind her. “Caduceus, _you_ helped us. I mean, I guess She helped you out and you helped the rest of us. So, thank you. I know we don’t say it a lot—”

“That’s okay. We don’t always have to say everything,” the Firbolg ducked his head, hoping the steam form his tea would hide (or at least, explain) the hint of a blush creeping up his face.

Jester pulled a face at him, hands planted on her hips. “Well, we need to say it _some_ times, so I’m saying it _now_! And _that’s_ why I wanted to give you this back—” From somewhere (who knows where with Jester, but he could’ve _sworn_ her hands were empty a moment ago), she produced the charm he’d bought in Nicodranas and given her on the ship, the one that let the wearer speak with and understand plants. “—I mean, let’s face it: I had _lots_ of fun with it, but you could actually use it in your garden, and I know you bought it because you wanted it.”

She pressed it into his hands, clearly determined not to take ‘no’ for an answer, then she whisked away for a second, returning a heartbeat later with a brightly-colored plant he’d never seen before in a cute ceramic pot. “ _And_ I wanted to give you this, too. It has the _prettiest_ flowers when it blooms, and I hear the dried petals make a very interesting tea.”

“Well, I can’t wait to try. Or to ask the little guy how to best take care of it. Thank you, Jester.” He smiled up at her, and was rewarded by seeing some of her worry melt away.

Maybe he wasn’t fully used to being the one looked after, instead of the one doing the looking, but if it made his friends feel better, maybe he could let it happen every now and again…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, not my favorite one I’ve done so far. It feels a little weak to me, but when you right a fic a day for 31 days, sometimes they don’t all turn out great. I guess I just feel a little bad that I ‘let down’ a concept I’d really thought could be a cute scene when I came up with it. Oh well. Here’s hoping tomorrow’s is better.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	13. Deep: Buried Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things, some feelings, we lock away in a deep part of ourselves; if not for our own sake, then perhaps for another’s…

Since ~~meeting~~ ~~joining~~ _becoming_ the Mighty Nein, Cale Widogast had gradually gown—if not comfortable with, then at least accustomed to—demonstrating some of his feelings for these people (albeit, in his own way).

That way was, of course, his magic: the spells that he had taught himself, not received from his old teacher, that he put to use for their benefit, to keep them safe, make them happy. Tiny Huts that paved the way for Magnificent Mansions (Or Nine-Sided Towers, as it were) so that their rest was safe—so that none of them would be torn away from the rest of them again; spells to Hasten, Enlarge, or even Polymorph in battle so that each could bring their best skills to bear on the current challenge; Illusions that transformed an island into an event (Or simply brought a bit of levity at the end of a spa day): every casting was a gift from the wizard to the friends he still sometimes struggled to believe _really_ wanted him around.

He’d even started to use words, however fumbling and hesitating, to say and to ask what spells could not adequately convey—I need you; I trust you; Please help me—and that terrifying vulnerability was not betrayed by these people. (You are our home; _We_ are each other’s home.)

But deeper beneath _those_ feelings—home, family, trust, belonging—were still others he dared not voice or show: a resolution he could not always force himself to keep (when _she_ needed his help, he would not hesitate, but perhaps the efforts of the others at Rumblecusp would hide what his deeds had nearly said), but felt that he _must_ , if only for her sake.

He was helplessly, hopelessly in love with Jester Lavorre, but he could never tell her that.

He could barely admit it to himself, the mere thought bringing up old self-loathing not too far gone. The wizard thought himself a rational enough man to recognize, when he saw it, a case that was as impossible as it was inadvisable—even if she _could_ love him back, that did not mean that she _should_. And what he found that he wanted most was not that she be with him, but that she be happy.

And so he stepped back, held his tongue, guarded and fought for her happiness with all the energy he refused to spend on his own, and buried the feelings deep within himself, there to shine in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, pretty much entirely sprung from Liam’s comment about Caleb being ‘hopelessly in love with Jester Lavorre,’ but also very clearly not making any moves, putting her happiness above his own. (And she definitely isn’t the only one he’s got feelings for, according to his most recent Talks, so there’s hope for our wizard and his happiness yet…) 
> 
> Then I threw in a dash of Caleb-shows-his-love-through-magic at the start because I think that’s one of my favorite parts of his growth—seeing all the things he uses it for to tell the others what he can’t always bring himself to say. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	14. Expression: Fleeting Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the moment she saw his face…Yasha KNEW.

From the moment she saw his face, Yasha _knew_.

They’d barely gotten their feet under them from Caleb’s teleportation spell, only just adjusted to the storm and flurry around them, caught only the barest glimpse of the two individuals ahead of them.

Jester, of course, sprang forward with a cry of “Molly!” her arms outstretched towards her fellow tiefling. Yasha followed close behind, but more to protect the eager cleric than to reunite with the figure ahead—dread was already pooling in her stomach.

From the moment she saw his face, Yasha _knew_.

The tiefling turned with an annoyed sneer and a general air of how-dare-you-interfere-with-an-important-person’s-important-busieness, an expression that didn’t belong with those colorful tattoos and remnants of bright jewelry. It didn’t belong because it wasn’t _him_ —it wasn’t Molly.

But then, for an instant—for the briefest second—those red eyes met hers, and recognition lay in them. Mingled joy and desperation flashed across his face for a single heartbeat—it’s _you_ ; you’re _here_ ; _help_ me!—then it was gone, the sneer from before returned, but twisted into a grimace, then a glare. (Molly was still in there, but Lucien held the upper hand.)

From the moment she saw his face, Yasha _knew_.

In the fight that followed, (because, despite their best efforts, of _course_ it became a fight) Yasha’s one aim was to get Lucien away from Cree (so she could get Molly free of Lucien, but one step at a time), and keep him alive without letting him kill the others. In the end, they bound him (interrogated him with Zone of Truth, for though it made their stomach’s church a little, there were things they _had_ to know that only Lucien could tell them), kept an eye on him as they discussed and planned.

The casters were tapped, so they spent the evening conferring, planning out what spells they could combine that just might bring Molly fully back, (as Yasha kept assuring him that he _was_ there), and even grappling with the moral question of _should_ they force one soul out simply because they knew and preferred another? (“Lucien is dangerous,” Yasha quietly pointed out, “and Molly _wants_ to come back to us.” She was certain.)

From the moment she saw his face, Yasha _knew_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story…I did try to pre-write a few of these stories since I knew I would be moving in early October. Add to that I fell a week or so behind CR thanks to starting a new job, and I had written a completely different version of this story that involved finding Molly’s spirit in the strange city on the Astral Sea. Oops. 
> 
> Needless to say, I have since re-written my shameless, self-indulgent Molly’s-totally-still-in-there-wanting-to-come-home fic, since I doubt it will actually come true in cannon. (We will always have fic, at least.) 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	15. Dressed to the Neins: Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone was just about ready, it seemed…

Percy and Vex, of course, were well used by now to dressing for a variety of occasions and levels of formality—a simple but elegant blue gown for her, dark hair swept back and held up by golden pins that evoked Pelor’s sunbeams without seeming too elaborate or overdone; for him, a well-cut blue jacket that reminded many of the much more travel-worn one he’d donned on countless adventures (and still did, on days when he wasn’t going to be seen by anyone outside of immediate family.)

Keyleth wore both mantle and circlet, and how comfortable she seemed to be with them, now decades into her time as the Voice of the Tempest, and the long reddish-brown dress beneath the leafy cloak set it off wonderfully while seeming to almost radiate an internal, ember-like glow.

Grog still didn’t really do the whole ‘dressing up’ thing (…or wearing things like ‘shirts’ at all…) but he had washed up and still maintained a truly magnificent beard, so the others all silently agreed it was good enough and didn’t press the issue.

Pike heavily preferred plain and simple while Scanlan would never wear anything that _wasn’t_ loud and extravagant, if he could help it. But each had rubbed off on the other after nearly twenty years of married life, so if her ivory-and-gold dress had a bit more lace and flair than the cleric normally wore, and if his pink-and-purple suit was more toned down than one would expect from the bard, one didn’t have to look far to find the explanation.

(Their two children, along with the five young de Rolos could _usually_ be counted on to behave themselves at ceremonies, dinners, balls, and so on—but both the children and the parents were relieved that this particular invitation had been specifically made to the members of Vox Machina, which left the younger generation with a whole evening together to get up to the sort of mischief that didn’t bear imagining and probably would be best to not ask about afterwards—but would most certainly be memorable and fun.)

Not that the event in question was any sort of official one—hardly formal at all, really. As it was, Kima and Allura had invited their old friends to Emon for a dinner party. Where Allura hoped to introduce them to some young new associates of hers visiting from Wildemount…

…It was time to see who or what these ‘Mighty Nein’ people were…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what it says about my brain that I took one look at today’s prompt and instantly decided that I’d write a Vox Machina fic…I can be quite a contrarian at times, there’s no denying.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	16. Transformation: Push and Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They didn’t stop running…but they did change direction…

The adventurers who would become the Mighty Nein weren’t cowards—even in the very beginning.

From the start, with the proper motive or incentive, the seven hapless fools with more luck than sense would happily hunt and fight monsters in lairs where saner folk would fear to tread. Cowardly they most certainly were _not_ ; predominately and almost exclusively interested in their own goals and safety when compared to the world at large they most certainly _were_.

So, in those early days when whispers spoke of coming war, they fled—purposefully taking jobs that would keep them out of and away from a conflict they refused to have any part in.

When they did eventually get involved, it was again for purely personal reasons—one of their own wanted to save her husband, so off they went into enemy territory, fearlessly (perhaps) but selfishly, all the same.

Even the act that would eventually be the catalyst of peace—their return of a stolen sacred relic—was done out of self-preservation in a moment of desperation, not any great push towards altruism.

But then…

But then they found themselves thrust into the center of the very conflict they’d fled from, and even while pursuing their own ends—wresting a stolen friend form the clutches of a cult that’d stolen her mind and heart from her—they found themselves asking time and again what they could do to bring peace, or, at least, expose truth.

Ad so, when the peace talks came at last, they did not flee or avoid them, but _asked_ to be present, potentially putting their own lives at risk not for their own ends, but for the sake of the wider world.

(And later, when strange visions of an alien city even _implied_ a possible threat, they immediately leapt to action, proactively seeking answers, unwilling to be merely reactive this time.)

No, the Mighty Nein were never cowards; but now, they were starting to be heroes…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to play around with the idea of how this group of mercenaries became a group of heroes…and what did and didn’t change about them. Not too much more to say, honestly. Except we’re officially more than halfway through CRInktober! 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	17. Falling: For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rush, the thrill: she didn’t think anything could be better…until—

Beauregard wasn’t afraid of falling—

—she fucking _loved_ it.

The wind rushing past her, the twist and drop of her stomach, the feeling of almost weightlessness as she plummeted, the exhilarating knowledge that if she didn’t do this _just right,_ she’d be catastrophically injured—or worse? What a thrill!

She was completely out of control in gravity’s grip, but had learned how to master the minutest shifts that could drastically alter her trajectory and eventual landing, and that paradox was _fun_.

So, yeah, she paid special attention to the Cobalt Soul’s training that had to do with things like running over water, up walls, and—yeah—falling in total control. And once she mastered it, she took every opportunity she could to display it, to show it off to the others (and maybe to one barbarian in particular…)

Maybe that was why, standing over a hundred feet up at the top of a cliff and inverted waterfall, Beau thought that the best thing to do was to taking a flying leap off and yell, “Yasha, catch me!” (To be fair, though, when it came to the other woman, rationality and logic were _not_ Beau’s strong suits.)

Whatever she’d been expecting, Yasha unfurling now-feathered wings, catching her bridal-style, and _taking off into the fucking air_ definitely was not it!

As they soared up over the cliff, above the jungle, the force of the wind streaming past her ears didn’t _quite_ muffle the echo of her rapidly-pounding heartbeat, her stomach lurched with a wrenching twist even as it was filled with a thousand butterflies, her body was weightless, her head and heart so light in, fact, she was nearly afraid they’d be left behind, and with an electric thrill, she dared to hope that if she did this _just right_ , the best thing in her life might just happen.

…

Yeah, Beau loved falling. But flying?

That was the best thing in the _world_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt list came out in the middle of the Rumblecusp arc, there was only one place my mind could go with this prompt. Hopefully, you all enjoyed my take on this moment!
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	18. Tea: Comings and Goings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First and final teas...Families of blood and heart alike...

It is not your average child who waits quietly but nonetheless eagerly for the day they are deemed ‘old enough’ to join in the near-ritual of family tea, but even in this most unusual of families, Caduceus was not an average child.

Calliope and Colton were _still_ difficult to wrangle into sitting still for even a few moments. But as soon as Constance placed the cup in her then-youngest’s hands, the young firbolg closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrant steam, a contended smile spreading across his face that looked almost comical on one so young.

(Of all the Clay siblings, Caduceus _was_ the one most suited for quiet contemplation—in a way, she supposed, it made sense.)

* * *

“Mother?”

Constance looked up from her packing at her third child’s voice, to see him lingering in the doorway. “What is it, sweetie?” Like the rest of the family, he’d seemed to accept the necessity of this quest and taken her coming departure in stride, but maybe there were doubts or thoughts he’d only express in private.

“I know that you and Corrin have to leave today, but I was wondering if I could make you a cup of tea before you go?”

Constance heard her sister come up behind her, but didn’t even have to look to know the answer. “That would be wonderful, Caduceus. And you’ll join us, of course.”

* * *

Calliope said nothing as she watched her younger brother pour three mugs of tea; Cornelius closed his eyes and took a deep breath—probably trying to identify the family of origin. “You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you?”

Caduceus looked to her, probably trying to spot the joke or the prank in her words, but there wasn’t any. Like his offer of this time, this pause, before they set out, the coming journey and its purpose felt too solemn for such games. This was a time for being more honest and direct.

“Of course I will,” he answered at last, passing each their mug. “All of them.” _(The living and the dead.)_

* * *

By the time Colton and Clarabelle felt the call to venture out, the tradition was well and truly established, and the remaining three Clay’s sat on the temple steps, sharing one last pot of tea.

“You sure you’ll be alright on your own, Caduceus?”

Caduceus pulled a face—even among his siblings, no one got to him quite like Colton did—before turning deliberately to Clarabelle. “I’m counting on you to keep that one out of trouble.”

“You got it!” Clarabelle beamed up at him from the lower step, then stuck her tongue out at Colton. “So you better do what I say. Caduceus said so!”

Colton spluttered, nearly dropping his steaming cup. “What the—he did _not_ —anyway, this is _my_ quest, so _you_ have to do what _I_ say!”

“Your quest?” Clarabelle nearly screeched. “The Wildmother didn’t say that: we’ve _all_ had signs!”

Caduceus held up his hands, forestalling a potentially hours-long argument. “You’ll have plenty of time to discuss Her leading when you’re on the road. For now, let’s not let the tea get cold…”

* * *

He may have been the only one left (‘family tea’ was now simply ‘daily tea’), but still he clung to the routines and rituals fervently, and especially the tea (it grounded him, clamed him on even the worst and the hardest days.)

Days to weeks to months to years, and some days it was hard to remember a time before solitary teas. 

But one day there was a clamor and a commotion in the graveyard, and Caduceus emerged, cup in hand, to see a goblin, two humans, a dwarf, and an unfamiliar firbolg on more-or-less his doorstep. His expression may not have changed much, but it took him a moment to throw off the shock, defaulting to his easiest form of hospitality, save for one slight difficulty…

“Huh. I think I only have three more cups. Hold on…”

* * *

The Mighty Nein may not have had any sort of ‘daily tea’ ritual, but the others were always glad for a cup when he made some, and even came to request he make a pot after particularly trying adventures and other momentous occasions. Caduceus couldn’t remember which of them requested this one before he even suggested it—certainly they’d all been thinking of it, at least a little, in between their individual plans and arrangements.

And so they all sat, bags at their feet, and drank tea together one last time. (“Only it’s _totally_ not the last time, you guys. I mean, we’re all going to be traveling to see each other _all the time_ ‘cause we’re a super-tight family now; so we’ll _definitely_ all have tea together again—real soon, I’ll bet,” Jester pointed out. “So _technically_ , it’s not the last.”)

Caduceus had worked (and worked alone) in a graveyard for too long to assume that was necessarily true, but he kept his thoughts to himself—

—He knew very well by now what you did and didn’t say when saying ‘goodbye’.

* * *

It was…strange, in a way, coming back to the Blooming Grove after so long away, to find it healthy and hearty again instead of the waning, sickly place he’d left. Strange, too, to come back to his family waiting for him, when the temple had been empty, solitary, for so long.

(And strangest of all was the feeling of empty space around him where _they_ had just been. Wherever the coming years would take them—and bring them back to each other again and again and again—they weren’t here _now_ , and he hadn’t yet adjusted to that.)

He was where he was supposed to be, and where he wanted to be, but a part of him was already homesick, even for their wandering lifestyle.

Caduceus met his mother’s eyes, saw understanding in her gentle smile, and let her lead him inside to a warm kitchen and a familiar table. He sat almost mechanically, still unsure of the words to express his current state, but knowing Constance wouldn’t push him.

She handed him a cup of tea, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent and relaxing, even into the confusion of the moment.

* * *

So much time later, years turned to decades and more, a much-older firbolg sat alone in the graveyard, surrounded by his friends. They—and he—had come and gone again until all were gone (but him) and had come here, one last time. He was honored that each of the others had chosen the Blooming Grove as their resting place, and there was no responsibility the dutiful firbolg took such care with as the nurturing of these seven plots.

(Now, again, he had a daily ‘family tea time’, but most days, he only needed a single cup.)

They’d been good lives, Caduceus reflected as he sat and sipped. Good and full and beautiful and (miraculously, somehow) long ones, each for their kind. There was some sadness here, of course, but no regrets, and in that he’d found a peace, and, eventually, even happiness.

He took another sip, mouth quirking into a smile at the taste. There’d been countless debates among the Clay family about whether or not teas from different graves and even families ought to be mingled into different blends, but while each of these was something he would (and sometimes did) enjoy on their own, there was something to the way the saltiness of Fjord’s, the sweetness of Jester’s, the bold kick of Beau’s, the surprisingly gentle notes of Yasha’s, the smokiness and darkness that gave way to light flavors of Caleb’s, the brightness of Veth’s, and the ever-changing nature of ~~Molly’s~~ ~~Lucien’s~~ Molly’s all blended into a varied but cohesive flavor that he simply couldn’t resist.

“This is nice…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I had a longer note here, and AO3 deleted it.  
> Essentially, I love Caduceus, and wanted to pay with the idea of fist and last teas with both of his families, and with the thought (inspired by a post I saw before I even watched Campaign 2) of the others being buried at the Grove, when their time comes.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	19. Guest Character: Unexpected Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They didn’t know how, and at this point, they were more than a little scared to ask…

After the disastrous encounter with Lucien and Cree—after having to watch the person who was once their friend disappear into with his ~~new~~ ~~old~~ new companion off into the blizzard—after a week of chasing their tails and not making any measurable progress, after the lengthy journey to the supposed crash site, the Mighty Nein were (understandably) on edge.

 _Some_ thing was bound to happen, and moment now.

So, when Caduceus and Beau, then Jester and Caleb noted a darting figure vanishing around corners of the dig, always just out of sight but persistently following them all the same, they _knew_ they’d see a familiar face once they caught them…

…They just weren’t expecting it to be _Twiggy’s_ face.

“Wow! What are _you_ guys doing all the way up here?” the ever-eager gnome asked once cornered (far away from Vess and the rest of the encampment).

“We could ask the same of you,” Caleb pointed out. “The last we saw, you were on an island in the Lucidian Ocean.”

Jester broke in next, “so how did _you_ get all the way to Eiselcross, Twiggy? It’s so good to see you, by the way—we missed you _so_ much!”

“Aw, shucks. I missed you guys too, Jester.” Twiggy beamed. “As for how I got here…” she frowned, seemingly trying to chase a line of thought before smiling again, arms spread wide. “Honestly, I don’t remember! But I’m glad I did if you guys are here, too! I keep seeing that awful frowny lady around and I don’t like her. But I like you guys. Oh! I wanna show you this cool thing I found out here!”

The Mighty Nein exchanged confused and worried glances as the small gnome pulled out a strange and undeniably ancient device.

“No. fucking. way. _How?”_ Beau breathed, recognizing the design form the sketches that Vess had shown them only a few nights before—not the whole of Aeor’s super-weapon, but definitely a major (and important) piece of it.

Twiggy shrugged. “I dunno. I just kinda found it. I thought it looked cool, so I picked it up!”

Most of the Mighty Nein were stepping back or leaning far away from Twiggy’s prize, but it was Caleb who voiced the question filling all of their minds. “You have not—messed or played with it, have you?”

"After what happened with my Happy Fun Ball of Tricks? No thank you! Mostly I just wanted to grab it before that mean magic lady could get it. I have mentioned I don’t like her, right? But I didn’t want to get teleported to anther dragon, especially because my friends weren’t with me—have I said how happy I am to see you? And honestly, it’s not even all that pretty, so I don’t think that I want it anymore; and it’s too cold out here for me, so you can take it now; I’m going to go somewhere warm. It was great to see you all again! BYE!!!”

With that, she deposited the device into a stunned Fjord’s hands and skipped off into the frozen wastes before any of them had revolvered the wherewithal to stop her.

So, there they stood, once more accidentally come into possession of a strange artifact that no one alive fully understood, desired by elites in both the Empire and the Dynasty (and beyond), with the devastating potential of a deadly war behind it.

_Why does this always happen to us?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the hardest time choosing which guest character to go with for this prompt—I love all of them so much, and even limiting myself to just Campaign 2 (since I did so much C1 stuff last year) didn’t help much at all! But then I got this silly little idea of Twiggy being that one character that pops up where she shouldn’t be able to be with things she shouldn’t have been able to find, and, well…here we are.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	20. Healing: Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d grown used to the scar that had been left behind…she never expected to see it healed…

Keyleth had been in front of the cherry tree, talking with a handful of villagers when she heard the trunk open behind her. She turned, half-expecting to see someone from one of the other Ashari tribes dispatched with a message or a request for aid (she knew, of course, that she had other friends who would have their own reasons for visiting, but druids had a particular…flavor…of teleportation magic).

But the woman in the doorway, framed by a foreign night sky and the sounds of a celebration was not from one of the sister-tribes—

—She was from _this_ one.

“Mom?” The word slipped out in a child’s voice, and Keyleth felt her knees start to go out from under her. Before she hit the ground, the woman’s—her _mother’s_ —arms were around her, holding her (she hadn’t been held like this in _so long_ ) and they were both crying into each other’s shoulders.

There was so much she should have been doing—getting word to her father, checking to see if her mother was injured (somehow making sure this was _real_ and not some illusion, trick or worse)—but Kiki couldn’t bring herself to let go, to let her mother out of her arms.

(She’d done that one day, and Vilya hadn’t come back.)

This made no _sense_ , it wasn’t _possible_ , but at that moment she would have _killed_ anyone who said as much. There would be questions in time, yes, and there had better be answers to at least some of them, but for that moment, all that mattered was that Vilya had come home, that she was back, that she’d kept her promise after all.

(A raven watched from the lower branches, but did not interrupt to make itself known—this night belonged to the two of them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not have watched C1 live, but I did watch through it before starting C2 (I’m insane, I know, but I did managed to catch up somehow), and since I caught up during the break, I got to watch the whole Vilya situation unfold live. It was amazing and touching, and I’m so happy that Kiki got at least a little more happiness in her ending, after all this time. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	21. Lingering Resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you just need to talk to a friend…

She _knew_ it was stupid—okay?

She and Artie had _definitely_ crossed a line when they began impersonating the Moonweaver: a _real_ god had every right to be pissed at them! And they’d gotten _so_ lucky being let off with a (terrifying) warning in the end. They’d even accomplished their goal of paring down on followers of the Traveler without anyone getting _really_ hurt. (Except for Celia. But she was a dick.)

She _knew_ it was stupid to kinda hate the Moonweaver (just a little bit) for only _threatening_ to take her first (best?) friend away forever.

But she still did, kinda.

As the Mighty Nein camped atop the volcano, apart from the chaos of the remnants of TravelerCon, and after conversations with the others (and Artie) that really did make her feel a lot better), Jester finally drifted off to sleep, still wrestling with a seed of bitter anger she wished she could release.

She knew she was dreaming right away because she found herself sitting in a field with the lights of Hupperdook barely visible in the distance. There was no cart, no horses, no remnants of a camp, but this was where they’d been sleeping _that_ night.

Jester didn’t normally feel the cold, but now she shivered.

Almost instinctively, she turned to the hill that she, Fjord, and Yasha had walked up to take their conversation away form their sleeping friends. There, at the crest, illuminated by unusually bright silvery moonlight, was the form of the friend she hadn’t seen since _that_ night, looking just how she remembered him.

Slowly, fear and guilt twisting in her stomach, Jester climbed towards Molly, eyes fixed on her fellow tiefling as he stood, back to her, gazing at the two moons (much bigger and brighter than they should be, by rights). As she reached him, he turned with an easy grin, looking so much like he used to, that even in this dreamscape where her feelings seemed oddly muted or far away, she felt tears coming to her eyes.

Mollymauk threw his arm over his shoulder, so alive and warm and very, _very_ not-real. “Well, this hasn’t happened in a while, Blueberry. What’s got my wonderful self so on your mind that I’m back in your dreams?”

Everything came out in a rush, then—a little bit about Vokodo’s vision and the theories they’d discussed about potential connections between Molly and the city, but mostly about the terrifying turn that TravelerCon took atop the volcano, about how she’d always kinda liked the Moonweaver, because thinking of the Moonweaver reminded her of Molly, so now, in weird way (she was only just realizing as she said it aloud in the dream) one of the reasons she was upset at herself for being mad at the Moonweaver was that it felt kind of like insulting something that had meant so much to her friend.

He wouldn’t answer, of course, because this was just a dream and he was little more than memory and imagination, but the catharsis from the outburst helped all the same, and left her feeling much lighter, like a lot of the gunky inside had been power-washed out of her.

She was able to smile back at Molly now, and her fellow tiefling winked. “There. That’s better now. About time for your next dream, so off you go, now.”

Sure enough, the dreamscape began to warp, swirl, and shift—but just before it changed altogether, Jester heard Molly say something different, something odd:

“See you soon, Jester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure what to say about this one, except that I find it interesting that the whole thing with the Moonweaver happened right before the Molly situation got…whatever it is. Complicated, for sure. Molly never made a huge deal about following the Moonweaver, comparably, but it’s still pretty easy to hop from one to the other, in terms of mental-leaps. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	22. Music: Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all of his memories—but one—there was music…

His earliest memories were filled music.

The first songs Scanlan Shorthalt ever learned were from his mother, who whistled, hummed, or sang her way through most daily tasks, whose face came alight whenever her little boy joined in—or sang her one he had made up himself.

(They were simple, silly nonsense tunes, but she’d clap and cheer as though he’d composed the next great opera. He’d give anything to make her laugh like that again.)

…

His hungriest memories echoed with music.

He was too young, too small to convince anyone to give him work, so Scanlan did the only thing he knew how to do in order to bring a few more coppers home: he sang on the street corners. It was almost never enough, but a little money meant a little food at least—and was better than none, after all.

(He sang happy songs, because people liked them and happy people gave coin, but his mind roared with angrier lyrics, harsher melodies as he internally railed at a world that mostly passed him by or overlooked him while he and his mother were all but starving.)

…

His worst memory held no music. It rang instead with screams and cries—victim and attacker near indistinguishable in the cacophony— wood cracking, metal clashing, glass shattering, and his own terrified breathing as the young boy hid as best as he could from the raiding goblins.

(That best was good enough, but his mother was not so lucky. If this were some story written by an overly-sentimental excuse for a poet, Scanlan might never have sung again, but this was the real world where he still needed to eat and had only his words and his songs to earn his food. So, he warmed up his voice, pasted on a performer’s smile, and followed Dr. Dranzel out of town, never looking back.)

…

There were more memories to make, there was music ahead of him yet…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scanlan Shorthalt is an interesting character for me…not one I thought I would have any sort of grasp on, as the outward mask/face he wears is not a character type I connect to or consider a favorite. But when he’s honest, when he’s vulnerable? That’s something else altogether…
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	23. Home: Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great house does not a home make…but someday, it might be…

It _was_ a nice house—

—It was bigger than any place the small-town alchemist had ever _dreamed_ of living in, bigger than the biggest place in all of Felderwin! (Which, made feel very small, indeed.) And it was nice, too—as well as nicely furnished, thanks to all of the gold that Veth and her friends _some_ how had. (Seriously, _how?!_ With all the money she’d sent in those strange parcels before he knew she was alive, he’d have thought that the group would be broke by now, but apparently that was just _her_ share?)

It _was_ a nice house—

—So, it as a little strange: a rooftop garden lit by magic globes and topped with a massive _tree_ of all things (but, hey, at least it gave him something to take care of while Veth and the others were off doing gods-knew-what in this dark, scary place), _and_ a hot tub in the basement, of all things (which, sadly, seemed to require magic from at least one of the group’s casters to operate. Damn, that would’ve been nice.)

It _was_ a nice house—

—But it was sparse, barely furnished before all (but one) of its new occupants were gallivanting off again; not yet lived-in enough to lose the feeling of a museum (or a tomb); kitchen socked enough for a few days (if he was clever), but not all that many (and he did _not_ want to leave to go shopping in this city of monsters and dark elves); and out of every window, views of a—beautiful, yes—but dark, strange, and unfamiliar city. (He was also occasionally hit by the brief but unshakable feeling that he was being watched.)

It _was_ a nice house—

—But Yeza wanted to go _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss the Xorhouse, okay? I get why they haven’t been back, and I know they’ll probably go back to it someday, but I think of how Greystone Keep never really was VM’s home after Emon fell, and I get kind of sad, thinking of what the Nein made the Xorhouse into, given what it started as, and I worry it will go the same way…
> 
> (Don’t mind me, I’ll just be off in the corner getting emotional about a house/home.)  
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	24. Holiday: High Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a great honor…but they could have used some forewarning…

It is surprisingly easy to lose track of time when one is an adventurer, so it was hardly surprising that none of the Mighty Nein had quite realized it’d been just over a year since their journeys together began until Essek, during a visit to the Xorhouse, asked if they were planning to be in Rosohna for the festival.

Jester, ever eager for a party, brightened immediately. “There’s a festival coming up? When? Is it like a Harvest Festival or something?”

Essek scanned the faces around him, and must’ve realized none of them knew… “The Festival of Returning. In a few days’ time—it’s celebrating the anniversary of the day you returned one Beacon and began the chain of events that led to the recovery of a second. Were none of you informed?”

“They made our desperation move into a _fucking_ _holiday?!_ Nah—no one told us,” Beau wasn’t _quite_ yelling, and her tone was more surprised than angry, but he took a step back all the same (it was always best to be safe).

“Well, yes. It appears there has been some oversight. The Bright Queen did suggest _quite strongly_ that your presence be given to at least a few of the major events—political posturing and such, you understand.”

Veth and Jester look _way_ too excited at the thought of having their own holiday, Caduceus seemed bemused, Fjord and Yasha seemed taken aback, and Caleb and Beau exchanged half-mystified, half-calculating glances.

It was the wizard who spoke. "Of course, we should accept the Queen’s gracious invitation. Our next venture is not so pressing that it cannot be delayed a week or so. Good face and good faith are valuable commodities here.”

“Oh my gosh, you guys,” Jester broke in, hands clapping gleefully, “we can _totally_ get some new _Dynasty_ fancy clothes to go with our _Nicodranas_ fancy clothes and our _winter_ fancy clothes. Have you _seen_ how cool the bright Queen’s outfits are? We need to step our game up!”

Essek took his cue from the rest of the group and ignored the barely-audible groan form Fjord as the half-orc shook his head, shoulders slumping in defeat or resignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it’s not hard to imagine that causing the return of TWO Luxon beacons in short order COULD get the Mighty Nein a Dynasty Holiday in their honor…right? 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	25. Quote: Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d heard him the first time…but he had trouble believing, even the second time.

**_“Eventually, someday, somebody will pray for a miracle, pray for something to save them…”_ **

Oh, how well did Fjord know that feeling, that desperation—thrown overboard into storm-raging seas, lungs burning for air, with no sense of up from down, and nothing but watery death looming. Yes, he had been praying for a miracle that would let him live just a little bit longer…

**_“…and that prayer will be answered because you’ll show up…”_ **

The thought was almost laughable—him? The answer to someone’s desperate prayer? He’d never been truly wanted by anyone in his life before this group, only at best ever considered at least somewhat useful—at least enough to keep around, for a little while longer, for the moment at least.

**_“…That’s how it works. That’s what a champion is.”_ **

Only Caduceus could say something so profound that sounded so easy and so impossible at the same time—you’ll be there, it’ll happen, _you’ll know what to do_.

…

**_“Someone prayed for a miracle, and there you were…”_ **

Had they? Had she? Had he made any difference at all in that moment. Or did Caduceus mean that merely being willing was enough? (Was he even speaking of the moment atop the volcano, or another one…perhaps beneath it…?)

**_“…Very proud to know you. Well done.”_ **

Proud to know him—had anyone said that to him before? Had he ever made anyone proud? Even of a single accomplishment? Caduceus words, as they ever did, struck at a part of him that needed them but didn’t know how to respond. Besides saying:

**_“Thank you.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, something someone says just sticks with you. I wasn’t yet caught up for the first quote—the ‘that’s what a champion is’ moment; but I DID catch up before the bookend moment on Rumblecusp, so got to see that happen live.
> 
> I don’t know why it stuck out to me as much as it did (maybe its my inner Teahaw shipper), but that pair of moments was where my brain immediately leapt when I saw the prompt ‘quote’.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	26. Chilling: Rimefang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a battle they didn’t want, they weren’t expecting, and won’t forget.

It was the sort of cold that gradually sapped your strength—through the wind in your face, the air in your lungs, even the frozen ground beneath your feet. It pressed against you, clawed its way into you, and traveling the same distance now took nearly twice as much energy.

It was the sort of fear that grew slowly, incrementally, and (at first) quite without your notice. Tension from what you know you must soon face, uncertainty form not knowing when or where you would, and the inescapable pressure of a time limit—the fear of failure is insidious and near-impossible ignore.

It was the kind of cold that invoked blade- and spear-like imagery, temperatures so impossibly low that they ignored any amount of clothing layers, freezing straight to your core, stealing any manual dexterity and leaving in its place violent shivering… with too-permanent stillness threatening not far behind.

It was the kind of fear that bypassed rational thought and went straight to the visceral, primal part of your mind. It awoke the voice that recognized an apex predator—a deadly danger you paled in significance to—and _screamed_ at you not to get any closer. Freeze or flee, for how could you be so foolish as to think of fighting?

It was the sort of pain that came in a single instant—a wrenching tear that was a blaze of agony and the smell of blood, all-consuming and inescapable. There was no build up: it was simply there and unbearable from the first, but it _was_ brief, for blackness followed swiftly after as consciousness fled, only to return after the danger was finally passed.

…it was the sort of fight that reminded you why you _never_ split the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure why I decided t take this prompt into C1 (other than I knew I wanted to pick nine to do so to mirror last year’s ratio of C1 to C2), but once I did, I knew I wanted it to be about one of the two white dragons they fought. In other stories, I’ve touched on the fight with Vorugal, so this time, it was Rimefang’s turn. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	27. Deity: Known and Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because she was there didn’t mean she believed…or cared…or thought that maybe it could be kinda cool…if you looked at it the right way…

Beau had never considered herself a religious person.

Honestly, she’d been pretty dead-set against the idea for as long as she cared to remember (that is, ever since she’d stated pushing back against her father and finding even little ways to be herself—she told herself that there wasn’t anything before that point worth remembering). It was bad enough dealing with her _parents_ dictating who and how she should be, she didn’t need some high-and-mighty _entity_ adding their opinion to the mix.

Her resentment was (naturally enough) compounded by the circumstances surrounding her paternally-sanctioned abduction and unceremonious arrival at the Cobalt Soul. (Who _wouldn’t_ have issues with religion in general, much less a specific sect, when that was how you were first greeted and treated?) And the monks’ initial methods of instruction did nothing to help matters at all—nothing made Beau refuse to do something more than being told that she had no choice.

(Which was kinda too bad—you know? ‘Cause if you ignored the stupid and shitty rules, and the boring way most of the monks acted, Ioun actually seemed…kinda cool. Like, ‘screw you, authority figures, I say that everyone should be able to learn the shit that they want and _you_ don’t get to hoard knowledge and secrets. Yeah, so I’m wounded and everyone thinks I’m weakened and my followers have been hunted by enemies and are only just starting to operate openly—so what? You think that’ll _stop_ me?’ Of course, Beau didn’t follow _any_ body…but, you know, that attitude was something she could respect.)

Beau had never considered herself a religious person.

After all, she traveled with two clerics (one of whom even _believed_ her patron into godhood), a paladin whose god had personally saved him from a monster-sea-demigod-thing, and a fucking _angel_ whose god spoke to her in dreams and storms and shit—in comparison, her I-kinda-am-associated-with-Ioun-by-default thing really didn’t seem to count on some level.

And yet…Molly’s all-seeing eye tattoo—one of Ioun’s symbols—bothered her in a different way than his cards did, like he as showing her up by claiming something _she_ should care about (except that she totally _didn’t_ , so it was _fine_ , and it was just a stupid symbol anyway)…And yet…when she designed her own tattoo with a similar eye, it was only partially because she wanted to pay tribute to/make peace with the departed bloodhunter….And yet…when building her winter outfit, she took the time to pick out a brooch with Ioun’s symbol and display it prominently.

…

Beau had never considered herself a religious person—

—But Ioun was maybe…kinda…alright…even cool. But it was just like—you know—a club member ship kinda thing. Yeah. That was it. Totally. Nothing else.

…

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With so many awesome and blatant PC-and-deity relationships (Jester/Traveler; Fjord/Caduceus/Melora; Yasha/Storm Lord), it felt a little odd to be drawn to the one who’s only vaguely affiliated with a god, but I couldn’t help it: I wanted to explore the unexplored, especially as I see Marisha dropping more and more hints the maybe Beau’s been thinking of Ioun a little more…
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	28. Shopkeep: Commission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you need something special, go to a specialist… (and pray they don’t ask too many questions.)

Ordinarily, Yasha would never have gone to a fancy, unknown shop on her own—always better to have at leas tone of the talkers in the group accompany, so as to leave better first impression. But today’s trip was special, hardly ordinary, and the Aasimar keenly felt the need to take this on herself.

Fortunately, the work of finding a place to even make her request had already been done—a quiet question or two to Marion Lavorre when the others were out of earshot had resulted in a recommendation, some advice, and a happy-but-wistful-smile from the tiefling woman.

Yasha took a tentative shop inside Veraine’s Fine Jewelry and Valuables, the shop that Marion had named, her purple and teal eyes sweeping the well-lit interior, almost dazzled by the color and shine from within the various display cases. The cases ringed the small (but not crowded) room, each containing-not a particular _type_ of jewelry—but _color_ of stone (and setting, Yasha soon realized, noting that within a single case pieces were grouped by whether the metal used was gold, silver, or something else). It was a beautiful effect, and made it easy for her to know where to look; stepping right up to the case with the dark blue sapphires.

The cut gems practically glowed in the combination of natural light form the windows and magical torchlight within, and while the collection was dazzling, the room didn’t feel craped or overflowing, which Yasha was grateful for—she was nervous enough without feeling hemmed in or trapped.

As soon as she approached the case, the shopkeeper appeared out of a back doorway—a tall, thin female dragonborn with brass scales and golden-brown eyes. She smiled warmly at Yasha though a pair of spectacles perched on her snout. “Would you like any assistance or would you prefer to browse uninterrupted?” she asked in a hushed tone, her voice a little deep with a slight rasp, but not unpleasant sounding.

“Well, actually, I just saw something I would like to take a closer look at, if you don’t mind,” Yasha admitted, also in a not-quite whisper—something of the warm room that smelled faintly of vanilla, wood smoke, and something like cinnamon, seemed to invite (though not enforce) quiet speech.

The dragonborn—presumably Veraine—smiled wider still. “Certainly. Which piece?” she asked, already pulling out a set of keys, and moving up behind the case Yasha stood in front of.

“The ring there with the silver band—may I?”

The jeweler pulled out the indicated ring—a well-cut sapphire with a tiny diamond chip on either side, set into a simple, solid silver band. It was beautiful and elegant, but not overly frilly or ostentatious. “We can resize it, if need be,” Veraine offered, eyeing the ring in Yasha’s hand with an assessing gaze.

Yasha shook her head. She pulled another ring from a pouch—a piece of random loot from somewhere that Beau had tried on as a joke, noted its perfect fit, then tossed to the others, uninterested—and compared the sizes before nodding. “it will fit her. Could—could you do an engraving on the band, though?”

“Certainly—would you want it on the interior, the exterior, or both?”

“Uh, hm—” Yasha paused to consider, closing her eyes for a moment. “Both, I think. I—I have it written out—”

She pulled out a piece of paper, on which was carefully transcribed celestial writing. She was pretty sure that Beau could read any language now, or something like that, but if she couldn’t, Yasha wouldn’t mind translating any time she was asked: _Fly with me, my love._

Veraine studied the paper closely, nodding slowly. “Quite beautiful,” she rasped. “Not a script I can read myself, admittedly, but I’ll take special care to copy exactly what you have here, stroke for stroke. Honestly, a piece like this _needs_ a little something extra, but I wanted whoever purchased it to be able to personalize it. Someone will be a very lucky lady indeed…”

“ _I_ will be,” Yasha nodded with a small, crooked smile, “if she says yes.”

The smile grew warmer, brown eyes glowing happily. “I think you both are, and I wish happiness for the pair of you. Just the ring with the inscription, then?”

“Actually…” And here came the harder part, or at least the odder request, and Yasha felt her nerves building. “I was hoping to commission another piece as well? She…works with her hands a lot, see, and I thought, maybe, a necklace for fi she needs to…” Yasha trailed off, vaguely waving her hands as the words escaped her, but the dragonborn nodded in understanding.

“Aye, I have to take mine off when crafting, I hear you. Do you want a matching companion piece to the ring, then?”

Yasha fidgeted, shuffled, then pulled out a five-gold piece. “Actually, we have a joke…could this be turned into a nice pendant?”

The dragonborn raised one scaly ridge above an eye, but took the coin, examining it. “I can. …Would you prefer a gold or silver chain?”

Beau did wear mainly her blue-and-grey expositor garb now (hence the choice of ring), but the coin was gold…and so was the headband of intellect, at least… “Gold, I think.”

“I can do that. …You know, if you want an engraving around the piece that will hold the coin, there will be room,” Veraine offered. She wasn’t giving her any odd looks (which was helping), but rather frowning thoughtfully at the coin, likely already picturing the necklace she would craft it into.

“Perhaps,” Yasha cleared her throat, aware of how it might sound and praying the other woman’s professionalism would keep her form asking for a story that was too long to tell. “‘From now on, it’s on the house.’ Will that fit?”

“Aye, it will,” Veraine nodded, her smile slipping fully back into place. “No point in asking about inside jokes; so long as the two of you know what it means and it makes her smile—that’s all that matters. Both pieces can be ready…let me see…shall we say three days, just to be safe? If you need them sooner, my partner and I can rush the order, but I would like to be able to take the time to both engravings to the absolute best of our abilities.”

“Three days will be perfect,” Yasha affirmed. Form there, the talk moved to price of course. Yasha didn’t try to barter too hard—it rarely worked out for her anyway, and she didn’t want to alienate the craftsman of so important a piece. Besides, after so many adventures here was coin to spare.

The price Veraine quoted sounded fair to Yasha anyway, and Marion had praised her craftsmanship and integrity both, so Yasha felt confident she was not being cheated. The two parted ways—one to her work, the other to her wait—both smiling at the thought of the coming proposal.

_These are the kinds of commissions I love. I hope all the best for you and your lady._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just come up with a comparatively bland oc shopkeeper rather than write about one of the many beloved npc’s Matt has given us, all so I could do an indulgent Yasha-goes-ring-shopping piece? Yes. Yes, I did. Mostly because as soon as the idea of Yasha ordering that medallion came to mind I had to do it. I had to. BeauYasha shippers, enjoy my gift to you.
> 
> (Is there even such a thing as a five-gold piece in D&D? Well, I’m going to pretend there is!)
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	29. Grow: Happily Ever After…De End!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grog had never let nobody beat him—well, beat him twice. If he had to come back and try again a million times, he was gonna beat this thing!

If Grog was bein’ honest, he’d gone his whole life not really carin’ that he couldn’t read—it hadn’t been all that important. And when it was, one of the others was already doin' it, anyway.

(There’d been that one time—so long ago—where there’d been part of a trap puzzle in dwarvish, and he’d gotten kinda excited ‘cause he understood dwarvish, thanks to his belt, so he though he could help, before he remembered he couldn’t read. But Pike had been there, and she knew dwarvish too, so it was alright, then.)

But then…

But them they’d gone to the fire plane, see? And there’d been these fire giants, and he knew what they were _sayin_ ’ but there was _writing_ , too, and no one knew what it said because _they_ didn’t know giant and _he_ couldn’t read. And it’d worked out okay, but if it’d been a trap or trick then maybe it wouldn’t have, and maybe he did kinda need to know how to read.

(He asked Pike to teach him that night, and it maybe felt like it was kinda workin’ a little, but then that magic potion wore off and all the stuff he’d crammed into his brain just kind of went away.)

But Grog wasn’t a quitter! He’d gone back and beat Kern, and he’d come back and beat Kevdak, so he’d come back and beat this readin’ thing too!

It was _hard_ and it was taking _so_ long, but he wasn’t gonna give up and let everyone down again. So he got teachers, and he asked for help and kept _workin’_ and _tryin_ ’ and _thinkin’_ (even if it felt kinda weird at first), then he’d go out and hit things and then come back to keep learnin’.

He _would_ do this.

He _did_ do this!

(He was back in Westruun, visitin’ Pike and Scanlan and their baby, and Juniper Rae was in her little cradle, and Grog said it was _his_ turn t read her a bedtime story. It took a little bit, and maybe he stumbled over a couple of words, but her read the story to his newest and littlest buddy _all by himself._

And he _wasn’t_ cryin’…he just got a little misty when he looked over and saw Pike and Scanlan were doin’ the whole proud-cry thing in the doorway. That’s all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do something sweet and special for this prompt, since it was actually a suggestion I had submitted to CRinktober for their prompt list this year! The one idea that wouldn’t let go and kept begging to be written was our buddy Grog finally learning to read. I don’t know why the fact that his epilogue made a point that he did learn how to read meant so much to me, but I fully blame the tear-jerking scene on the Fire Plane!
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	30. HDYWTDT?: Like the Old Man Said…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each had their own way, yes, but they had one thing in common as well…

_How do you want to do this?_

_…_

…With bubbles and lollipops, unicorn hamsters and sparkly pink light, with an impudent smile and an illusory duplicate, with everything pretty and cute (and maybe a hidden dick or two), but with no mercy for those who would dare to hurt her friends…

…

…With a distant blast from a glowing sword, in a flash of ice from frosty armor, at the end of a summoned demon’s caw, wrapped in hexing vines—with powers gained from darkness and nature both, now becoming truly his own…

…

…With bloodied knuckles crackling with electricity, with the ‘crack!’ of a well-loved staff, with a spinning kick, with an attacking arrow thrown back, stunned, stammering, frozen in place, with a grin and a cheer and eyes gleaming as she _knows_ things about you that shouldn’t be possible…

…

…With nearly no sound from the shadows, with a crossbow bolt—or two—crackling with energy, with a laugh on dying lips or a terrifying illusion shredding the mind, with the fading scent of alcohol and hands that tremble less, if they hesitate more, but will never fail to come to the aid of her family…

…

…With the roar of magic, with the scent of flame or ozone or even fur, in a hundred different ways conjured from a brilliant mind seeking to bend reality to his will—and not unwilling to break certain people or creatures stubbornly and intentionally staying in their way...

…

With a battlecry and thunderclap, with two handed swords that won’t let anybody flee, with rage in mismatched eyes as radiant wings flare, celestial light searing into her foes, with blood and anger, yes, but also with joy that she has people to fight _for_ , and does not fight alone…

…

…With a swarm of insects, a murmured farewell, a disconcertingly clam expression, gentle eyes only a little troubled, with the ricochet off a strange shield, with the scent of moss and mushrooms as nature reclaims its own, sent by one of Her own…

…

…With color and light and carnival glass, with swords that glow or bear icy edges through no magic of their own, with the scent of blood, terrifying blindness, and harsh tones of infernal nonsense striking right to the souls of his foes—whoever he decides that those are…

…

…But whichever, and however— _whoever_ —lands the final blow, they never do so alone: standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others (or protectively over a fallen form), their strength made stronger by the others’ aid, and never called upon alone…

_…_

_How do you want to do this?_

**_Together._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a different thought for this one, originally. I was going to be a contrarian and go a little abstract with it, but when the time came to actually write, I found that this was the piece that wanted to come out: not cynical, not contrarian or a ‘clever twist’. Just our favorite group of heroes, and the bond that they share. 
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	31. Family: Is It Thursday Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes family is born…but sometimes…  
> …Sometimes, it’s found.

Sometimes, ‘family’ is a pair of runaway bastards who are just beginning to learn that they have in more in the world to care about than just each other; a gentle-hearted druid princess always trying to do the right thing as she struggles not to crumple under the weight of her responsibilities; a once-noble inventor who doesn’t care what the weapons he creates can do to the world, so long as he gets the revenge he craves; a hulking, blood-crazed half-giant of a man kicked to the side by his rampaging hoard; a tiny gentle woman of faith and light who charges headlong into battle; a prodigal bard caught between two families he never expected to have; and an eager, insufferable, naïve rich-kid-turned-adventurer who just might have more depth than even _he_ knows…

Sometimes, family forms through travel and adventure, born from convenience but growing into loyalty and love, even if it is years before each verbalizes what the others are to them—by the time they band together to face down gargantuan threats looming large over the word (while still finding time for levity, love, and laughter, when possible), they knew who stands beside them, and why.

…

And sometimes ‘family’ is a group of broken, distrustful people, kicked to the side by a world that only ever pretended to care when it wanted something from them—an alcoholic rogue with a fierce heart in the wrong body; a shell of a wizard who hates himself even more than he hates the man who had warped him; a lonely young woman playing the part of a bubbly young girl so as not to lose the friendship that she so desperately craved; a once- drowned sailor not daring to hope for being more than merely useful; a young woman told so often that she didn’t fit in that she hardly sees the point in trying anymore; a grieving widow with a trial of blood and trampled flowers in an unknown past; a faithful son left behind as his home crumbles around him, holding on to the comfort that he has; (an empty shell crawled out of a grave, addicted to life and light but keenly aware of borrowed time).

Sometimes, family recognizes itself through tragedy, realizing what it has—or could be—after nearly losing it, only to come back closer, bonds forged stronger. Sometimes, it finds itself in the little things, the quiet moments—not cut off entirely from the larger world, but taking its time to focus on and care for its own (for no one else has done—will do—it. The world that cause this pain can wait; they _will_ help it, but on their time, their terms.)

…

And sometimes, ‘family’ starts as friends. A group of story tellers gathered on a whim: a world-weaver who spins elaborate tales into gifts of the heart (a heart most empathetic and caring); a warrior-woman ablaze with confidence and passion, taking notes, forging paths, ignoring distant hate; a man with kind soul forged through a strange and eventful life, who is generous with wisdom so deep that it is commonly (half-) he may be immortal; a woman too-often gone, but who never forgets her home and brings light and a smile back with her every time she returns, no matter how tired the travel has left her; a man unafraid to play the fool to bring a much-needed smile or laugh to those around him, his own way of showing he cares; a big man who wears an even bigger heart open upon his sleeve, unashamed to display joy (and even fear), who knows strength is best used when helping others; a woman skilled in finding deals and jokes alike, who openly and eagerly shares her delight in the little things, in pretty things, doing her best to bring even a few more smiles into the world; a man unafraid to share and face the dark, but will not let himself—or the others—fully lose the light, and makes it his business to know and remember where they find happiness, who shares and celebrates art and beauty.

Sometimes, family starts with something as small as a game and little knows what something so inconsequential, precious, and private could become—and in sharing itself, finds itself grown, multiplied and globe-spanning. Sometimes, even when caught off-guard by what is beginning, it embraces what is forming around it and does its best to inspire good and do good: impact and opportunities increasing over the years as it grows ever larger, giving back and paying forward and doing what it can to make this world a better place. And every week, they still invite us in, and every week, we are urged, reminded:

_Don’t forget to love each other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the end of another amazing CRInktober. It’s been interesting, doing pictures as well as fics this year, and posting across three different platforms—Instagram, tumblr, and AO3—but despite the odds, I made it!
> 
> I want to thank anyone who read, left kudos, checked out the other posts for the illustrations, and especially everyone who left a comment. You guys kept me going when the stress of a move gave me the prefect excuse to quit. I’ve never been in a fandom quite like the CR one before. We, too, are each other’s found family, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
> 
> Reminder, if you want to see the little illustrations that go with each of these stories, check out my tumblr (@moderndaybard) stories+pictures, or Instagram (@moderndaybard_stitches) picture-only posts every day this month as well!


	32. (14)—Expression: In the Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised (in a comment on chapter 14), here is what I originally wrote out for the day 14 prompt, back before they traveled to Molly’s grave and discovered no one was home…

They’d spent so long avoiding The City, Vokodo’s fear and their own sense of an alien entity utterly beyond them kept the Mighty Nein running from this place for as long as they possibly could.

And, in that way that was so quintessentially theirs as the Mighty Nein, the path that they took to run away from the threat twisted and wound its way through disparate adventures before unceremoniously landing them right in front of the very thing they’d hoped to avoid—the Cerberus Assembly, the war between Dynasty and Empire, the dragon turtle, Uk’otoa…a living City of flesh. Running away only ever meant taking the long (hard) way around.

But long road or no, there were here now, and Caduceus was not the only one of them beginning to feel that an element of fate was at play in their story. How else could you explain their roundabout paths never failing to take them back where they were needed? How else could you explain all the items found by chance that would later be exactly what some bizarre but desperate situation required? How else could you explain all the chance encounters with specialist and niche experts—or skilled fighters—at precisely the right time?

How else could you explain the familiar face waiting for them in the City?

(Not even a face—not really—but for just a moment, the writhing wall nearest them resolved into a vaguely horned silhouette, blank-featured but for perhaps the suggestion of a pair of eyes.)

Beau saw it first—well, at the same time as Caduceus, but he wouldn’t know what made this shade any different from the countless others they’d glimpsed since arriving (except that this one seemed to be following them, appearing every few minutes wherever they went in that horrible place)—and though she tried to write it off as wishful thinking (‘it’s just because we talked about him when we first had visions of this stupid place, that’s all’), the expositor could not help watching the ever-shifting walls for the specter, even daring to listen for his voice in the screams and ails all around them.

Jester and Caleb were next to notice, and it was the cleric who pointed out the shadow to the others (it still appeared and vanished twice more before Fjord, Veth, and Yasha were certain that they’d seen it, too), though the party was no longer moving, it was still minutes between moments that the face could be seen, as if it were constantly straining towards them against something that kept pulling it back again and again.

“It’s Molly!” she gasped out, reaching out just as the impression of a figure faded into the writhing mass again. “He’s _here_! It’s _him;_ it’s _Molly!_ ”

Fjord hated himself for hesitating, for risking crushing her hopes, but the half-orc ha learned caution the hard way. “Are you sure, Jester? What if it’s Lucien or something? Cree did say something about them trying to reach a city, right before Molly woke up for the first time.”

“What, like Lucien got pulled here out of his body and Molly was who was left behind—or started over or something?” Veth’s tone was outwardly incredulous, but she couldn’t help remembering what their friend had said his first word was:

 _Empty_.

“That’s Molly,” Yasha stated quietly, but with all the immovable certainty of a mountain. “Not Lucien.”

Her mismatched eyes were fixed onto the place they’d seen him(? it?) the last few appearances, now that they were standing still. Another wrenching, violent _twist_ to the wall and the figure was visible again—Yasha surged forward, outstretched arms pushing _into the fleshy wall itself_ , the wall shuddering and resisting somewhat, the scrams and wails around them redoubling, skyrocketing in pitch and becoming painful to the ears.

In the half-second it took the others to respond, _something_ seemed to seize hold of the Aasimar and begin to pull her in further, even as she planted her feet and strained against it. Then they all piled onto Yasha, adding their strength to hers and pulling her back form the writhing, _hungry_ wall.

For a moment, the battle hung in the balance, but each of the Nein could feel that they wouldn’t be able to hold on much loner, while whatever they were resisting never flagged or faltered—they were mere seconds form losing.

With a primal scream, Yasha unfurled her now-feathered wings.

At the burst of radiant light from her transformation, every seething structure in the immediate vicinity physically recoiled, leaning way, and the ever-present screaming became a screeching wail of pain as the wall in front of them that’d wrapped around Yasha’s forearms was burned or melted away enough to reveal what she’d grabbed hold of: a hand.

A familiar, _purple_ , tattooed hand.

With a final, desperate heave (assisted now by her wings), Yasha wrenched her prize free: s the Mighty Nein tumbled into an undignified heap in the middle of the screaming hellscape, right among them was the unconscious, emaciated form of a tiefling they once knew so well.

Jester was the first to react, not even waiting to extricate herself from the pile before casting Plane Shift (this way, they were all already touching, anyhow), but when they landed in the Lavish Chateau a half-moment later, the others weren’t far behind.

There was a flurry of chaos, exclamations, and shouted questions that no one could answer, but Mollymauk remained unresponsive, despite the din (the only one in a five-block radius, no doubt). They rushed him to an empty room; Yasha lay her friend down so gently but could not bear to take even one step away. (Caduceus smiled and gave her a knowing nod, but no words were said as the two clerics set to work.)

_Starved. Weak. Exhausted. Unresponsive. Recovering? Resting? Stable._

**_Alive_**.

When eventually the battered tiefling came to, the others waited with bated breath for him to speak, fearing whether they would hear Mollymauk, Lucien, or another person altogether.

But not Yasha.

She _knew_ the moment the red eyes opened, as certain as she’d _known_ when she saw those eyes In the City: that look in them he’d had, even before he had words, that expression that was undeniably Mollymauk Tealeaf—

—She’d know it anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this was based on the idea I saw floating around on tumblr back when the City on the Astral Sea was first revealed, before the Nein found out Molly/Lucien was out and about: that perhaps Lucien had been trying to get to the city, and his soul had been trapped there, thus Molly woke up ‘empty’. (With the following possibility that after falling in battle, whatever sort of soul Mollymauk did have was pulled to the City because Lucien fucked him over royally with that escapade. Thanks, Lucien.)
> 
> As I said in my original chapter 14 notes, I decided to go a different direction after the reveal, but thanks to some kind encouragement from the lovely ShadowSonata, I am now posting the original fic here as a bonus chapter for any interested. Thank you again to everyone who read, left Kudos, or commented on this story—it’s been a great CRInktober, thanks to you!


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